


Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Take Me In

by fuck_me_barnes



Series: Brooklyn Baby [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Natasha Romanoff, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Everyone is Bisexual, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is a goddamn cocktease, Tags May Change, the only explicit part is Chapter 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuck_me_barnes/pseuds/fuck_me_barnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another series of loosely twined ficlets, set post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</p><p>"Bucky’s sitting in a doorway just a few feet away, impossible to miss, and yet hehad missed him. It was easy, even for Captain America, to overlook a homeless guy crouched in a doorway, he notes with some dismay.</p><p>Cautiously, he approaches him. “…Bucky?” He’s so close. He reaches out, to…to what? Pull him up? Put a hand on his shoulder? Even he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t get a chance to find out. "</p><p>
  <b>Explicit content is only present in Chapter 12</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jamais vu

Steve walks the street a lot, when he’s not running. If you asked him, he’d say he was just out enjoying the fresh air, getting reacquainted with modern times, exploring the wonderful historic city of Washington, D.C.   
  
Everyone knows what he’s really doing, but they don’t say it.  
  
He figured it’d be best to just stay put. There’s a thought of going back to Brooklyn, but no. This was where he last saw him. This is where he’d find him again. Made no sense to chase after him, he’d never get ahold of him that way, not if he didn’t want to be found. When he was ready, Bucky’d come back. Or so Steve believed, and no one could convince him otherwise. Not that they’d had any real luck trying to talk to him about it, save for maybe Sam. Kind of.

"Steve…it’s been six months now. Don’t you wanna -" Sam starts.  
  
"Off for a jog, don’t wait up", Steve cuts him off cheerfully, heading out the door in yet another tight T-shirt and sweats. Sam notices he hasn’t even bothered to grab a jacket, despite the autumn chill in the air.

"…Bye," Sam sighs, after Steve slams the door. 

Every jog, every walk, every trip wears down on Steve’s hope a bit more.  _Maybe he’s never coming back_. He tries to push the thought out of his head, keeps running.   
  
He makes his way downtown, and thinks,  _well, what the hell_. Running burns a lot of calories. He decides to hit up [a crepe shop](http://www.crepeaway.com/menu.html), and orders the Obama (very patriotic) and steps outside with it, warm and wrapped in foil. That’s when he walks straight into him.  
  
Bucky’s sitting in a doorway just a few feet away, impossible to miss, and yet he _had_  missed him. It was easy, even for Captain America, to overlook a homeless guy crouched in a doorway, he notes with some dismay.  
  
Cautiously, he approaches him. “…Bucky?” He’s so close. He reaches out, to…to what? Pull him up? Put a hand on his shoulder? Even he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t get a chance to find out.   
  
"Don’t fucking touch me!" Bucky snarls, and Steve reflexively steps back a pace. He looks like he hasn’t showered in a week or two, stubble on his face, hair long and wild under a blue baseball cap. The quilted jacket he’s wearing looks two sizes too big, and his jeans are torn and dirty, his boots scarred and scuffed.  
  
"Okay. Okay, Buck. I won’t touch you." He realizes he’s holding the crepe out in front of him like a shield. Carefully, he lowers his hands to his sides, making sure to telegraph his movements to the wild-eyed man on the ground below him.  
  
They stare at each other uneasily for what feels like a full minute, before Steve tries again. “Can I…can I sit?”   
  
Bucky doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no, either. Just stares. Slowly, Steve lowers himself to the ground directly in front of his childhood friend. There’s a few more beats of silence as they regard each other warily. “It’s kinda chilly out”, murmurs Steve. No answer.  
  
"Well." He settles himself into a crosslegged position, like they used to sit in Mrs. Karsten’s kindergarten class. "I…I’m just gonna eat this crepe. You ever had a crepe, Buck? Real good. Thin, like a pancake, kinda, but they put stuff in it. Fruit, usually. This one has blueberries, strawberries, chocolate hazelnut spread, and bananas. But I gotta tell you, the bananas don’t taste like they used to. Not nearly as good as the ones we’d get at Santino’s grocery." Steve’s babbling, he realizes, but he keeps his tone light and conversational. Easy. Just two friends, enjoying a crepe on a sidewalk in downtown Washington D.C.   
  
He pauses to take a huge bite, hesitates for a second. “You…you wanna try? ‘S good.” He holds the crepe out in front of him, a peace offering.

Bucky blinks at him blankly for a few seconds, and then, unexpectedly, snatches the crepe out of Steve’s hand. He uses his right hand, Steve notes, his left hidden by a glove. He sniffs at it for a moment, and then takes several ravenous bites in a row. Steve’s not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

"Good, huh." Steve murmurs approvingly, a sad smile on his lips. Bucky finishes the crepe off entirely, finishes chewing, and looks back at Steve. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, gravelly. “Steve.” 

His heart jumps in his chest. He  _recognized_  him. “Yeah, Buck? What is it?” He can’t help the hopeful tone in his voice.

"The bananas…are shit."   
  
Steve can’t help it, he bursts out in relieved, shaky laughter. “I know. I know. They’re awful. I guess all the bananas we used to eat died in some kind of banana plague while we…” he does not finish that sentence, does not know  _how_  to finish that sentence, hurries on to change the subject. “Do you…do you want another? I can get you another one. They’ve got one that’s just melted butter, strawberries, a little powdered sugar. The strawberries still taste the same. Will you…will you come in? With me, Buck? It’s warm inside…we can get you some coffee, too.” Bucky tilts his head, interested but confused.  
  
Steve stands, and extends his hand to his friend, his Bucky, and waits for him to take it. He figures he’s waited for him long enough, he could wait for him a few moments more. “Let me help you up. C’mon.”


	2. presque vu

As the eldest child and a devoted big brother, Bucky often saw reflections of his baby sister in her older self. Becca would laugh, and he’d hear her delighted giggle as a toddler; she’d smile, and he’d be reminded of her toothless grin as a baby, sticky with fruit juice. He’d see her face at two instead of twelve, four instead of fourteen, her younger self superimposed over her freckled skin. At those moments he’d reach out, ruffle her hair like he did when she was a kid, and she’d screw up her face and bat his hand away, and say “Stop it,  _Jaaames_ , I’m not a baby anymore.” He’d laugh, but privately, he believed that no matter how old she got, she’d always be his kid sister, and he’d never forget the child she once was.  
  
Nowadays, his memories were full of more holes than Swiss cheese, a labyrinth full of darkened corridors and trap doors. Things came back to him gradually, rather than all at once. Some things Bucky now remembered - Coney Island and eating Nathan’s hotdogs on the boardwalk on a sunny summer day, for example - but he couldn’t recall ever going on the Cyclone like Steve said they’d done. He couldn’t recall a lot of his time spent with Steve, in truth, which was particularly frustrating, as his time with Steve comprised the greatest amount of his existence. They were the hardest to grasp, Steve’s presence flickering in and out of his mind like a guttering candle flame.   
  
One morning, Bucky walks out into the living room to find Steve sketching something - sitting on the floor at the coffee table in a square of sunlight from the open window, head bent over the paper in concentration.  
  
"Hey, Buck," Steve says distractedly at him, a kneejerk reaction. He doesn’t even look up. Out of nowhere, Bucky remembers

 _he was sketching something on the floor in a cheap dimestore notebook, with his last pencil, worn down to nearly a nub but that hadn’t stopped him, and he’d seen him and_  
  
"Hey Stevie," he replies/had replied, feeling the  _deja vu_  hit him in a dizzying rush. And the candle flame of Bucky’s memory flares up in a flash, and he knows that what he says next is

"Whatcha drawing?" he asks/had asked, and Steve looks up/had looked up, startled, almost, to see him there.   
  
And it’s then when Bucky looks at him that he remembers tiny, scrawny, sickly Steve Rogers, sees him in this man now before him.  
  
"Stevie. ‘S what I used to call you. Right? That’s right, isn’t it?" he tilts his head, wondering at the superposition of the memory he now holds in his mind. He can see Old Steve,  _Stevie_ , in this new Steve’s face: same Steve, same as always. Something cracks in him, his vision blurring the images together, and he realizes it’s not his mind playing tricks on him, just tears in his eyes.  
  
"Bucky?" Steve stands, slowly, hope written all over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, you did." He gets to his feet and he’s tall, taller than Bucky remembers, than he…remembers, he  _remembers_.

He walks towards this man, astonished. He doesn’t have it all back, not by a long shot, but it’s a step in the right direction. Bucky reaches out to him, wonderingly. “Stevie. I got my Stevie back,” he says in a thick voice, and pulls Steve in towards him.


	3. déjà entendu

He’s been back for six months now and he’s finally starting to function again. 

They gave him his own suite, his own floor, but every night finds him a floor above, on Steve’s couch at first, and after the second month, at the foot of his bed. He wouldn’t let him out of his sight. Steve wouldn’t have it, though, after the first few uncertain nights.  
  
"Buck", says Steve, finally, and peels back the covers. "C’mon." He gestures up at the empty space beside him. "Get in bed."

They’d slept like that ever since, Steve curling around him in the darkness, a mirror reversal of how they’d slept as kids. Bucky’d always been the one to keep Steve warm, now it’s the other way around and Steve holds him close as Bucky shivers in the night.

Steve didn’t pressure, he didn’t rush. If he sensed that Bucky didn’t want to be touched, he’d take his hands off, natural as breathing. Bucky was grateful for that, but found he couldn’t conjure up the words during the day to tell him. It was only when it was night out that he felt safe. His face obscured, Steve’s voice an anchor in the darkness, wrapped together with him or lying inches apart, a constant presence nearby.

It’s one night, lying there next to one another in the dark, that Bucky finally summons up the courage to slide his hand over, seeking Steve’s. Twining their fingers together in the dark. Steve inhales sharply, surprised, but doesn’t say anything. 

Neither does Bucky.

Seconds spin out into minutes, into what feels like hours, before Bucky rolls towards him, reaching up his hand to find Steve’s face in the dark, and kisses him. He realizes, as their lips meet, finding the kiss sweetly and insistently returned, that this is something Steve’s been waiting for all along.

As if he’d read his mind, Steve says, after Bucky breaks away panting, “I didn’t want anything you’re not ready for. Are you…?” He lets the question hang there, trailing.  
  
Bucky’s quiet for awhile, letting his breathing slow. Steve waits patiently for him to reply. Just when he thinks Bucky might have fallen asleep, he hears him say huskily, “How could you want me near you. After everything. Nearly killed you.”  
  
"Oh, Buck," Steve sighs. "It wasn’t  _you_. It wasn’t. And I’ve  _always_  wanted…I’ve always wanted you. And I dont care how long it takes. I could wait forever, as long as you’re here with me.” He sits up, leaning on one elbow, trying to search Bucky’s face in the dark. “As long as we have each other, you and me, we’re gonna be just fine. Okay?”  
  
Bucky huffs, but doesn’t reply save to pull Steve to him for another kiss. “I waited long enough,” he says when they break away again. 


	4. déjà vu

Normally, it’s Bucky who has problems with insomnia. So when he wakes one night in an empty bed at 3:30 am, he knows something is very wrong.   
  
Bucky waits a few minutes, listening to see if maybe Steve’s in the bathroom or something. But it’s when he hears what sounds like a choked-off sob from the living room that he slides out of bed, alarmed. He grabs the gun he keeps near him on the nightstand, just in case, and heads out of the bedroom on high alert.

At first, he doesn’t see him anywhere, furthering his sense of unease. On a second scan of the room, he realizes that Steve is actually out on the balcony, curled up with his chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, shuddering. A dim memory surfaces: two boys on a fire escape, at sunset on a warm summer night. There is laughter in the memory, and something more, a dull ache of sadness that Bucky can’t quite parse with the recollection. Steve would know. Steve…

Right, Steve. Bucky thumbs the safety back on and puts his sidearm on the coffee table. Softly, so as not to startle him, he calls out to the man on the balcony. “Steve?”   
  
There’s no answer, just a shuddery sigh, as if he were trying to get ahold of himself and failing. Bucky tries again as he approaches him. “Steve. Stevie? Hey.” Steve’s eyes, he can see now, are red and puffy. How long has he been out here, crying like this?

Bucky settles himself down next to Steve, putting himself in his field of vision, but a few feet away to give him some space. It’s the same as Steve does when he’d been in a bad way more than a few times - when Bucky was in the grip of a panic attack or a bad memory surfacing vividly, he didn’t like to be touched or held, but it helped to know there was someone else there nearby.  
  
"What’s going on, punk?" he asks, trying to sound gruff and failing.  
  
There’s a long pause, and Steve lets out a hysterical little laugh. “You were supposed to be asleep.”  
  
"Yeah? So were you. You wanna talk about it?"  
  
Another long pause. Then Steve lets out another one of those shuddering breaths and bursts out, “All of this. It was all my fault. I never looked for you. I never tried to find you. I should’ve done. I didn’t think - it just, you were gone and I - I just got on that plane a day later, I was  _angry_  and I was  _torn up_  and I was out of my  _mind_ about losing you, wasn’t thinking straight and I could’ve. I could’ve saved you from.” He trails off, wiping his nose angrily on his sleeve. “What they did to you, I could’ve  _stopped_  it, I could’ve gotten you back, but I fucked  _up_ , Buck, I fucked up so bad.” He’s sobbing again, fresh angry tears.  
  
Bucky takes a deep breath, shaking his head. He exhales, slowly. “Stevie, no. No. Ssh, c’mere…” He scoots over a foot or two, reaches out for Steve. He resists, at first, but after a few seconds, Bucky pulls him over roughly. “Stevie,  _c’mere_ ,” he repeats. Steve melts into him, burying his face into his neck. Bucky rests his chin on the top of Steve’s head, wrapping his arms around him tightly. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. I don’t blame you, no one blames you, not one bit.”   
  
They sit like that for a long while, Bucky rocking him gently, running his fingers through his hair, stroking and soothing. When he finally stops crying, Steve pulls himself up a little bit. “Never want to lose you like that again. It wrecked me up, Buck.” He wipes at his eyes, taking a deep breath.  
  
"You won’t. Promise." Bucky kisses the top of his head, and each eyelid, the tip of his nose, and finally, the bow of his lips. "See that?" he asks, nodding his head towards the horizon. "Sun’s coming up."  
  
Steve cracks a smile, finally, and says “Remember when we used to do this? When we were kids? Be up all night talking, out on the fire escape to get some air in the summertime?” and Bucky’s memory clicks back into place, it wasn’t sunset but _sunrise_ , and it’d been in the middle of a record heat wave. It was easier for Steve to breathe out on the fire escape, better air, less stuffy in the stifling warmth. He’d stayed awake all night just to make sure Steve was okay, and they’d ended up laughing and talking till dawn.  
  
"Yeah." He presses another kiss to Steve’s cheek, smiling. "I remember."


	5. need you here

It’s the first time that Steve’s been called out on a mission since Bucky came back.   
  
"You sure you’re going to be okay, Steve?" Bucky asks, smiling slightly. Truth is, Bucky’s scared to death of being left alone in his vast empty floor of Avengers tower by himself, but telling Steve that would almost certainly ensure he stays behind. Which he doesn’t want. Captain America has a greater job to do than stay behind and mother-hen his recently recovered brainwashed assassin boyfriend, he knows. Doesn’t mean he has to like it. Or that Steve does. He knows the next words out of his mouth will be-

"Are  _you_  sure  _you’re_  going to be okay, Buck?” Looking at him all concerned, putting a hand on his shoulder. His heart skips a beat in his chest.   
  
"Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine. Go on. Go out and save the world. I’ll be here when you get back."  _If you get back_. He catches himself before he can wince, tries to push the thought away.  _He’ll be fine, it’s_  Steve,  _he’s tangled with worse than these yellow-suited AIM jerks_ , he tries to reassure himself.  
  
Steve reaches out, puts one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, concern in his blue eyes. “Nat’s one floor above if you need her, you know.”  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s the tenth time you’ve said it. I’ll really be okay. Go on, punk, get moving. World ain’t gonna save itself." Finally, Steve smiles at him, genuine and bright, like the sun peeking out behind the clouds.   
  
"All right. I should be back from Latveria in two, three days. Won’t be long. There’s a chicken and veg casserole in the fridge, just needs to be heated up, some frozen pizzas in the freezer, canned soup and Spaghetti-Os in the pantry, about three dozen cookies from Sam’s mom in the jar on the counter. All different kinds. And you know that if you want ice, you just push the button on the outside of the fridge, looks like a bunch of little squares. There’s some clean towels in the cabinet next to the sink in the bathroom, and the TV, you just push the red button and put in the channel numbers, or you can scroll up the channels with the arrow button on the left, and-"  
  
” _Steve_.” Nervous as he is, Bucky has to try hard not to laugh. “ _Go_.”  
  
Steve grins ruefully at him. “Okay. All right. I’m going. Don’t do anything stupid till I get back,” he admonishes Bucky gently.  
  
"How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with you." Their little joke. It feels good, to do this again. He punches Steve gently on the shoulder. "G’wan."  
  
Steve straps his shield to his back. “Oh, and don’t forget to turn the oven off if you make pizza. If it gets too hot or too cold in here, just tell JARVIS and he’ll adjust the temperature. And there’s some emergency money behind the-” Now Bucky can’t help it, he’s laughing, and he grabs Steve by the shoulders and points him towards the door.   
  
"BYE," he says loudly, kissing him on the cheek with a loud smack as he pushes him out the door. "GOODBYE, STEVE."

He can hear Steve laughing as he makes his way down the hall. It’s good, he thinks, to hear that laugh again. As he closes the door, he is confronted with deafening silence.   
  
Bucky’s grin disappears and he bites his lip.  _Okay_ , he thinks.  _Okay, I can do this. I can be here alone_. He wanders into the living room, turns on the TV. He scrolls through the channels aimlessly, finally settling on some cartoon show, just for the background noise. It was easier for him to watch neutral programming. No news, no murder, no gore. Cooking shows, nature documentaries, cartoons, comedy shows about people working in offices.  
  
He’s not been alone for more than an hour when he gets a text.  
 __  
You OK?  
-Steve, it says.  
  
 _stop signing ur texts old man  
_ _I have ur # stored in my address book  
_ _it already tells me who u are  
_ _u nerd_ , he replies. Bucky laughs as he hits send.

A few seconds later his phone buzzes:  
 _It’s just good manners, Buck._  
 _-Steve_  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes and replies with a little picture that looks like an annoyed face. Emoticons, they were called. Natasha had taught him that.

He manages just fine in the place till about midnight. It’s dark and it just seems _bigger_ , somehow, more empty. Any other night, they’d be curled up in bed together, probably, sleepily kissing or just holding each other. He scrolls through the channels on the TV, but nothing is enough to comfort him or distract him. He shifts around restlessly before finally deciding to make himself go to bed.  
  
Lying in bed, Bucky tosses and turns. Finally, he reaches for his phone, and impulsively taps out a message and hits send before he can stop himself.   
  
 _I just really need you here right now._

His phone buzzes almost simultaneously. Confused, he stares at it.   
  
 _I just really need you here right now._  
 _-Steve_

 _jinx old man_  
 _I miss u too_  
 _stop signing ur texts_ , he replies with a smile, and finally drifts off to sleep with one hand wrapped around his phone. Just in case.


	6. end of the line

It’s been awhile, and things have been all right, but Bucky doesn’t know if he will ever completely be over the guilt at the things he did while he was Hydra’s “asset”.

Sam had told him once that recovery was kind of a misleading word - recovery, he said, was a constant, an ongoing process, rather than a final destination. It was hard for Bucky to accept that, that he’d never really be fully and completely “recovered”. Parts of him were the old Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes of Brooklyn, New York, and then…parts of him would always be the Winter Soldier, the cold-blooded assassin. 

He was a sort of integration of the two now, he supposed, and that was the best he could do. “We all take the war home with us”, Sam had also said, and Bucky acknowledged that to be true. Some, he thought, more than others.

Steve, though. Steve was a problem. He wanted Steve, but he didn’t deserve Steve. He was definitely not good enough for Steve. He was a broken, damaged thing who wasn’t worthy of Steve Rogers, and he would never be. Maybe in another life, sure, but not this one. Steve didn’t get it, just kept looking at Bucky like he hung the damn moon. Thing about the moon, though, is that it reflects the sun’s light but none of its warmth, and it has a cold hidden dark side that the sun could never touch. The sun, of course, just kept on shining away anyhow, oblivious.

They’d been fighting about it for the better part of an hour.

"What’s it gonna take for you to realize that I’m no good, and that you should leave me? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, Stevie." 

"Bucky, no. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said when I told you that I’m with you-"

He cuts him off, shaking his head angrily. “Yeah yeah, I know, you’re with me till the end of the line, but what if - what if this IS the end of the line?”

"It’s not, Buck, I promise you. You’re a good man." He’s so impossibly calm, so confident, that Bucky wants to lash out at him, break that in him. Make him doubt, like Bucky doubts himself.

"Not good like you. Not with all the things I’ve done." His hands clench into fists, reflexively, as if he could hide all the blood on them. 

Steve sighs. “Bucky. That wasn’t you, and you know that. I just…I’ve always loved you, Buck. Nothing’s gonna change that, and I’m not gonna stop anytime soon.” 

Bucky cannot form an articulate response to this - how does he do that, he wonders - and so he just crosses his arms and huffs, blinking back the tears in his eyes.

"C’mere, Buck." Steve opens his arms and pulls him in. "I’m not gonna leave you, not now and not ever." He kisses him on the forehead. "I did it once and I don’t think I could handle ever doing it again. You left me alone for five minutes, once, and look what happened." 

He lets out a sound that’s half-laugh and half-sob against Steve’s chest. “Yeah. You joined the army, got a bunch of highly experimental medical treatments, and I mean, it just went downhill from there. You thought I was dead and less than 24 hours later your kamikaze ass tried to crash a plane into the ocean. Who knows what’d happen to you if I went to the grocery store alone, or took a weekend in New Orleans to myself.”

"Need you to look out for me, that’s all." Steve puts a hand under Bucky’s chin, tilts his face up towards him for a kiss. "Purely selfish motivation. Self-preservation. And I love you. That too."


	7. just breathe

It used to be the other way around. 

He’d be the one sitting there, gasping for breath, panicked, feeling like he couldn’t get enough air, and Bucky’d be the one rubbing gentle circles in between his shoulder blades, murmuring encouragement as calmly as he could manage: “c’mon, Stevie, in through the nose, real slow, that’s right,  _good_ , you’re doing great, keep breathing for me, okay?”  
  
This isn’t an asthma attack, though, and Bucky’s triggers weren’t cold air, or cigarette smoke, or cat fur. Bucky’s triggers were less preventable, more unpredictable. Steve never quite knew what would set him off, much as he tried to protect him. Like now, for example.  
  
He sits down in front of Bucky on the couch, and looks up at him. “Bucky, ok, I’m here. I’m here, I love you, I’m not judging you for this, and I want to help you. I’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want me to, okay? You don’t have to talk, just nod yes or no.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing rapid and shallow. After a moment, he gives a tiny nod. “Okay, great. I want you to come down here to me, here on the floor, ok? Can you do that for me?” Another tiny nod, more of those horrible wheezing breaths. “Do you need help?” A shake of the head, for  _no_. Bucky sort of slides to the floor, his back against the couch.  
  
"You’re doing good so far, real good, Buck." He doesn’t respond but to press the heels of his hands to his temples, suppressing a moan. "I know this feels scary. You’re safe here, with me. You’re safe. You’re okay," Steve says in a low, soothing tone. His hands itch to reach out to him and wrap him in his arms, but he knows that when Bucky is having a panic attack, he cannot stand being touched while he’s in the throes. Steve had learned that the hard way, when a panicked Bucky had nearly broken his arm when he’d tried to hug him.

"Okay. I’d like it if you could open your eyes for a sec, all right? Look at me, Buck." Slowly, Bucky’s eyes open, their beautiful blue glassy with terror and tears.  
  
He smiles at him kindly, “Good. You’re doing awesome. Look at me. Just breathe, okay? Deep, slow breaths. In through the nose, one, two, three, four…good. Exhale, one, two, three.” Steve counts through the inhales and exhales with him, because getting him to focus on a simple task usually helps.

“You’re doing great, Bucky, really great. You can get through this.” He reaches over to the love seat and grabs a stuffed bear off of it. “I’m gonna keep counting with you, but I’m gonna give you your bear to hang on to, okay?”

Natasha had given him a BuckyBear as a kind of joke when he’d come to stay with Steve in his apartment. They were very popular, Steve had learned, in the late forties. This one wasn’t vintage - he suspected she’d made it herself - but it was also pleasantly fuzzy and soft. Tactile sensations helped keep Bucky grounded when he was coming out of a panic attack, and the bear was actually really good for that. 

Bucky takes another deep, shuddering breath, and takes the bear, rubbing it idly with the shaky fingers of his right hand. So far, so good. Once it appears his breathing has improved, Steve says, “I’m gonna give you a glass of water to drink, all right? Just take a few small sips, nice and slow.”  
  
"Hhh. ‘Kay." Bucky reaches for the glass with his left hand, the bear still in the right. Steve waits until he has drained the glass, slowly, and Bucky sets it carefully upon the coffee table. His breathing is slow and even now, but even so, Steve doesn’t pull him close until Bucky reaches out for him, permission to hold him granted.  
  
"Thanks, Stevie," Bucky murmurs into the crook of his neck.  
  
"Anything for you, Buck. I love you."


	8. remains the same

Bucky’s been out on the balcony for an hour now, just staring out over the skyline, threading his legs through the railing, leaning his cheek up against one of the bars. He’s not so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear her coming up behind him ( _female, around 130 pounds, rose perfume_ ) and sitting next to him, settling herself down lightly next to him.

"Been out here awhile," Natalia remarks casually. When he doesn’t answer, she reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair, and he shudders despite himself. 

She turns her head, looking out over the city skyline. “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

"Nothin’ like it was when I was a kid. It’s changed a lot," Bucky murmurs.

Nat hums a noncommittal “mmhmm”, still playing with his hair, and shifts herself towards him slightly. “It’s still the same city, though. It might have changed on the surface, but it’s still New York.”

Bucky snorts unkindly. “You think so?” He turns back to look. “Used to feel like home. Now it’s just…it’s like I woke up one day, and it was this totally different place. Missing pieces, busted up and broken. Half of it’s familiar, and half of it’s gone. It feels…dirtier now. Rougher.”

She shrugs. “Still a good city.”

"Not really, no. But you’re the only one that understands that," he says, his voice low. Nat’s quiet for a few moments, leaning into him a little, and resting her head on her shoulder. She has a feeling she knows what he’s  _really_  talking about, and it’s not New York.

"Natasha sighs. "James. What happened doesn’t change anything. You are still a good man. Not dirty, not broken, not missing pieces. Maybe a little rough, yeah," she says, running the back of her hand over his three-day-stubble with a smile, "but still a good man."

She tilts her head up to kiss him on the cheek. “I love you now like I loved you then. Nothing will ever change that, for me.”


	9. the one good thing

"What happened doesn’t change anything." They’re sitting at the kitchen table, the room illuminated by the glow of the moon and the city lights.  
  
"I had no idea that she…that you…that you were together." Steve’s trying not to look hurt, but failing miserably. "You could have told me."  
  
Bucky lets out a deep sigh, puts his head in his hands. “It was a long time ago, Stevie. In another life.”   
  
"I know. I know. I just…" Steve pauses, not sure how to approach the question that burns in his chest. "Are you…do you still…"  
  
"Love her? That what you were gonna ask me?" Bucky lifts his head to look up at him, a wounded animal lashing out.  
  
There’s a pause as they look at one another. Bucky’s the first to drop his eyes, after seconds stretch out into a minute. He turns his head away as if embarrassed and says, quietly, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I still do.”

Steve remains still, saying nothing. Turning back to face him again, Bucky pleads, “You gotta understand, Stevie. Out of everything”, he gestures at himself, his arm, “out of  _everything_ , Natalia was the one good thing in all of it. If it weren’t for her…” He looks away again, shaking his head, unwilling and unable to complete that thought out loud..  
  
"It doesn’t mean I love you any less. It doesn’t change anything. I just…it’s still there, you know? And I just, sometimes…sometimes I want both. It’s not that you’re not enough, you’re  _everything_  to me…but Stevie, so is she.”

"And sometimes…you want both", Steve repeats, an odd tone in his voice.  
  
Sighing, Bucky confesses in a low voice, “Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, I do. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I’m just, I don’t know, made wrong or something. I’m fucked up.”   
  
"You’re not." he says quietly. "I feel the same way."  
  
"I’m fucked up, I just -" he stops. "What?"  
  
"You’re not fucked up. There’s nothing wrong with you. I love Natasha too. I understand. I thought…I thought there was something wrong with  _me_.” Steve bites his lip. “We…had a thing. A few years back. I felt like she was the first one who really understood me…since you.”

"Oh." Bucky blinks. He pictures Natalia and Steve, intertwined on Steve’s big bed together. The picture is not without tremendous appeal. " _Oh_.”   
  
Steve presses his lips together in contemplation before hesitantly speaking. “Maybe…maybe we should talk to her. About this. About  _us_.”  
  
"Maybe you should. Maybe she’d be interested. Maybe Natasha loves the both of you very much, you nerds." The voice comes from behind them, startling them both. "Maybe you left the door open when you were having your little chat." She steps in the room, grinning widely at both of them. " _What_. Spy.  _Hello_.”


	10. we do what we want

"The press is having a goddamn field day with this," growls Fury. "You three are a PR nightmare."  
  
"I don’t care what anyone else thinks," Natasha says coolly, twining both Steve and Bucky’s hands in hers. "It’s no one else’s business but ours, what we do in our private lives.  _Or_  who we love.”

Fury sighs, scrubs his face with his hand like he’s getting a headache. “They’re going nuts with this. Bad enough that Captain America is getting it on with a guy, and that guy happens to be his former sidekick and best friend who became a brainwashed assassin for Hydra. But that he can’t decide? Or that he ‘needs both’? That he’s greedy and taking as many superheroes as he can for his personal stable? Because that’s the kind of things the media’s saying. You three have my blessing, it ain’t none of  _my_  business, but I’m warning you, they don’t have a lot of kind things to say.”  
  
"They just don’t understand, sir. But we’ll do our best to educate them." Steve’s jaw is set, his mouth in a hard line. Bucky looks at him and remembers the kid that made that exact same face decades ago, right before he issued a challenge that usually ended in him battered and bruised in a back alley somewhere.  
  
Fury huffs, shakes his head, and stands up. “Good luck.” He walks out of the briefing room, leaving the three of them there on their own.  
  
Bucky turns to face Steve and Natasha after the door shuts behind Fury. “Look, OK. We…we don’t have to do this. You could just…leave me out of it. I just…don’t want to drag you two down. Destroy your reputations.” He bites his lip. The thought of people turning Steve and Nat into some kind of dirty joke, a punchline or a slur makes him sick to his stomach.  
  
"Don’t you listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them," Natasha says angrily, reaching for him and pulling Bucky close to kiss him on the cheek. "This isn’t about what other people say. None of it’s true."  
  
"Buck, I’m not going to deny that I love you in order to save the reputation of Captain America. That’s just…it’s  _wrong_. I’m not going to lie about it to anyone. Not the media, and not myself.” Steve steps close to them, wrapping both of them in his arms. “I am in love with both of you, and that’s the truth. Only person’s opinion I care about on that particular subject is both of yours. And that’s final.”


	11. better off with you

When Steve finds him that night, he’s up on the rooftop, sitting very still on the concrete ledge, legs hanging over the side and hands bracketing his knees. He’s hunched forward, looking down, and that’s what makes Steve’s heart seize in his chest. Gauging the distance between himself and the earth below. 

"Buck…?" he croaks out to him, softly. His features are obscured in shadow, but he’s certain this is it, this is  _him_. He tries again, and this time his voice doesn’t break. “Bucky.”

He’s unarmed, at least as far as Steve can tell, but right now he’s more concerned with the way Bucky’s hands grip the ledge, as if he’s gauging how hard he’ll need to push off. His hair, long and wild, is blowing around in the updraft, and he can see the faint glimmer of the metal arm, reflecting the light from the buildings below.

"Hey, Stevie." The way he says it, so flat and toneless, raises the hair on Steve’s neck, gives him goosebumps from head to toe. Bucky’s silent for a beat, and then turns his head a fraction of an inch towards him, barely moving, one eye on Steve and one eye on the city below. "Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you…?"

The casual nature of such a horrible thought expressed out loud stuns Steve into silence for a moment or two. Panic swells in his chest for a second and he fights it, tries to regain control of himself, keep from running to him and ripping him bodily off the ledge. He knows if he rushes at Bucky, there’s no way he can get to him in time. 

So instead, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, Buck. I have,” and the brutal honesty and rawness in that simple admission is enough to get him to turn his head completely towards Steve, his mouth falling open in shock. 

"I know. I  _know_ , right.  _Captain America_ ,” he snorts gently, raising his hands, palm out, “who’dve thought it. But I’d be lying to you if I said otherwise.”

He starts moving, slowly now, towards where Bucky is sitting. “See, I had this person, once, who meant the whole world to me, and when I thought I’d lost him, well. Things got a little crazy for me.” 

Bucky hasn’t moved, and he keeps his eyes trained on him, even as he affects a casual, relaxed tone. “He wasn’t even gone for two days before I took it upon myself to crash a plane into the ocean. Now, ‘course, if there had been one other person on that plane with me - just one - you bet I’d have made  _damn_  sure that I found another way to land it safely.” Steve’s within two yards of him now, better than before, but still too far away.

"But Buck, I gotta say, I didn’t see much point in going on. It was like someone shut out all the light in my life, all at once. And I figured if you - if this person - were good enough to give your life in service," Bucky snorts derisively at this, but Steve keeps talking. "Figured I couldn’t do much better than that. I thought, hell, I had nothing to come home to now, might as well."

Three feet, now. Almost close enough to touch. “So yeah. I thought, world didn’t need me much, anymore, and I didn’t need it. For me the world had already ended, the minute you fell away from me and I couldn’t catch you.” He reaches out, wrapping his arms around Bucky tightly, pulling his back flush with his chest. With that simple reassurance, the dam in Bucky gives way, and Steve can feel his sobs echoing through him and into his own ribcage, violent and wrenching.

"I lost you once, already, Buck. I couldn’t live through that again." He leans his head on Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him slowly, gently, off the lip of the ledge, listening to Bucky’s heartbeat hammering in his chest -  _alive, alive, alive_. “You’re my whole world. I wouldn’t be better off without you. It’d kill me, too. Please, please, please come back inside with me. Promise you will, and I won’t ever let you go again.” 


	12. I can wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt -
> 
>  
> 
> _subspookysam asked: Bucky having to abstain from sex for like two months bc some medical reason so stevie walks around the house naked as much as possible and he masturbates when he knows bucky is going to walk in on him._
> 
>  
> 
> I surprised myself with this one.

"It’s really not that long", Steve says with a smile. "I mean, what’s another few weeks? I can wait." 

“ _I_  can’t,” Bucky grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration.

"You’ll be fine." Steve reaches out and squeezes his shoulder gently.

 

* * *

 

It’s not even a week later when Bucky walks into the kitchen to grab a snack, and there’s Steve, bent over and fishing something out of the back of the fridge. He’s completely nude, his round little ass on full display. It feels like someone’s punched all the air out of Bucky’s lungs.

He looks over his shoulder at him casually. “Hey, Buck,” he greets him before turning back and continuing to rattle things in the fridge around. A second or two later, he apparently finds whatever it is he’d been looking for, and hums appreciatiavely. A jar of pickles is in his hand when he straightens up.

Steve looks at him mildly. “Want one?” he asks innocently, fishing the biggest one out of the jar before wrapping his lips around it.

Bucky doesn’t answer, stunned into silence. After a beat, he flushes and leaves the kitchen as quickly as possible.

 

* * *

 

Steve pours himself a huge bowl of cornflakes, humming under his breath. He tosses a few strawberries on the top, a bare sprinkling of sugar, then pours on some milk. Once again, he’s not wearing a stitch of clothing. The morning light on him turns his skin golden, makes his hair like a halo. He looks like a painting of some Greek god come to life.

Bucky lowers the morning paper and glares daggers at him over it. He has no idea what he’s even looking at, he hadn’t been able to pay attention to a single word on the page once Steve strolled in. “This gonna be a regular thing, or…?”

"I dunno what you’re talking about," Steve shrugs, fishing a particularly large strawberry dusted in fine sugar crystals and dampened by milk out of the bowl with his fingers. He licks the milk and the sugar off the outside with the tip of his pink tongue delicately before popping it in his mouth. "Mmmm," he moans appreciatively, his eyes closed in pleasure, mouth full of berry.

The way he swallows is absolutely obscene. Licking his lips, Bucky can see Steve’s mouth is stained slightly red with the juice. “Delicious,” Steve comments. “You want one?” He bites into another, and the juice runs down his chin, drips onto his chest. “Oops,” he murmurs, runs a hand deliberately down his pecs. He collects the juice with his index finger and pushes it into his mouth, sucking at it gently before pulling it out with a wet pop.

"I didn’t ask for breakfast sausage this morning," Bucky snaps, and throws the paper down on the kitchen table, leaving his half-eaten croissant behind.

 

* * *

 

The following week, Bucky enters the living room to find Steve sprawled on the couch, his eyes closed, idly stroking himself and panting quietly.

"Mmm…oh…ah…ah…," he groans, his hand tightening slightly on his cock, his hips thrusting up into his fist. Bucky stares, hypnotized, at the mess of precome leaking off the tip of his dick, and watches Steve swipe a thumb over the slit, smearing it down the shaft, slicking up his cock and sliding his hand over it faster.

"Oh, fuck,  _fuck_ , fuck, yes,  _B-Bucky_ ,” he stutters out, and at the exact moment that Steve says Bucky’s name, his eyes flutter open in surprise as if he had just heard him walk in. Steve comes all over his fist and his chest looking directly in Bucky’s eyes.

They both blink at each other for ten full seconds before anyone so much as moves. Frustrated, Bucky sighs, pointedly walking past him to pluck a book off the bookshelf. He does not,  _will not_ , turn his head to look at Steve, lying there looking fucked-out, marked up and messy with his own come, and laid out like a God damned buffet on their couch.

"Gettin’ real tired of your shit, Stevie-doll," Bucky growls as he walks down the hall to his room. 

Behind him, Steve laughs. Bucky grits his teeth so hard he’s afraid he might break his jaw.

 

* * *

 

Six weeks. Six weeks where he can’t put his hands on him, taste him, six weeks of torture till he’s finally cleared for “active duty”. When the doc gives him the go-ahead he practically hauls Steve back to the apartment over his shoulder.

He’s so worked up that by the time he pushes all the way into him, it only takes two thrusts before Bucky comes with a surprised grunt.

"Really?" Steve asks, rolling his eyes as Bucky falls back onto the mattress. 

"Oh, to hell with you, Rogers, this was one hundred percent  _your fault_. Christ. I thought I was gonna fuckin’ die. You were absolutely  _no_  help, you pretty little sack of shit.”

"No help? I didn’t so much as  _touch_  you!” Steve protests, his blue eyes alight with suppressed laughter under his feigned innocence. “I followed the doctors’ orders to the letter.” 

"See if I finish you off now, y’oughtta know what it feels like." He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths.

Steve snickers. “Oh, like hell, Barnes.”

Bucky opens one eye, turns his head to look at Steve. “Oh, Stevie-doll, ‘m gonna pay back your kindness in spades tonight. Don’t you worry,” he purrs in a deadly-sweet voice.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, Steve is crying and begging and covered in Bucky’s come, and Bucky’s still not given him his. 

"Please - oh,  _please_ , Buck, wanna come,  _need_  to come, please, ‘m  _sorry_ , just let me come,” he begs, shaking. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his skin and he looks absolutely  _wrecked_.

Bucky pointedly feigns looking at the clock on the nightstand. “Aw, c’mon, Stevie, it’s only been a few hours. What’s a couple of weeks? I can wait.” He grins widely at him, a real pleased and vicious shark-smile, before pounding back into him again, making him scream.


End file.
